A deep restlessness saps into my fingers, my hands, my tired arms and slumped shoulders, but my bedraggled feet are done moving. So I refuse to move, unsure what to do.

I just want to nap or ferret out a new social alert: some sign of love, relevance and need for me in the world.

But I can’t turn away anymore.

There is an anger in me. It is what first alerted me to something amiss. I do my best to contemplate this bubbling frustration, boiling over into a shaking rage with no place to go.

My exploration of this anger turns quickly to guilt for the ease with which I redirect this cruel chaos to the people around me.

The anger has been rising for months, maybe years. It’s unhurried rise making me blind to it’s presence and unable to see where it ends and I begin.

I wonder if I am feeling staidolduninspired?

And yet I started a pretty interesting project that has me shooting more often and in a focused manner – exploring the city around me for the first time with new eyes.

I keep coming back to a sad truth. Some men can’t cry. I’ve forgotten how to laugh. I can chuckle. It’s that body shaking, table pounding explosion of love and wonder that I yearn to recapture.

I expect this is all tied to my search for the little boy who loved the world so openly.

My hiding away from the world is also suspect. There are times where I need this, but I can overdo it.

I expect this is about: purpose, work, laughter and loving. Being alive. Taking road trips at the last minute. Sitting around campfires. Running aimlessly in the forest. Causing mischief. Living.

And the fact that I have always relied on others to instigate these things.

A friend who never invites is not much of a friend.

I have no answers, but needed to get this out and onto the page. I have to start to untangle myself from these strands of dark resentment and in so doing, be able to see them again.